Chapter 10

He slowly closed the door to his home, leaning against it and waited as he stared down the dingy hallway that led to where she was. It would come, he knew it. First it would be her voice, yelling and degrading. Then she would stumble into the hallway, daring him to speak back to her, daring him to argue.

He wouldn't, it didn't matter how much he wanted to or how wrong she was. Or how very much her words hurt him. He would listen and nod his head. She was always right. She'd told him so often enough.

But tonight, just this one night, he wished she would leave him alone. He dropped his bag by the hall closet, grimacing at the seemingly loud thump. He knew she'd have heard that. His ears strained to hear her ponderous footsteps getting up from her chair where she was watching her "programs". She never missed them, and if he interrupted her, oh boy-o, there'd be hell to pay.

When it stayed quiet, he snuck forward, his boots squeaking in the silence of the apartment on the sticky linoleum floor. He winced and slowly kicked them off, his socks showing whitely against the dirty floor, picking them up to take them to his room. A place for everything and everything in its place, she'd always told him, making him put away his things before she'd rip out dresser drawers and dump their contents on the floor and the cot that was his bed.

She'd stood over him, making him refold everything, making sure the corners were perfect, the edges neat, the piles tidy. She watched him close the final drawer, his shoulders slumped, his arms shaking. She'd patted his cheeks gently, smiling in approval before turning and ripping the blankets and sheets off his cot. A slap to his face and a well aimed kick to his butt had sent him to work, trying to remake the bed exactly right the first time so he wouldn't have to do it again and again until she was satisfied.

But she was never satisfied.

"Did you get my black licorice, boy?" her voice rang out from the front room, harsh and uncaring.

He patted his pockets, suddenly uncertain if he had or not. He thought he had. He remembered going into the store but had he actually gotten the candy? His heart raced in fear until he felt the paper bag crinkle under his searching fingers. He pulled it out with a quick sigh of relief and hurried in to give it to her.

She was sitting in her chair, a padded straight back that was as ratty as the huge dress she wore, her mountainous buttocks overflowing the edges, the wooden arms pressing deeply into her sides. It groaned wearily as she shifted, as if it, too, were as anxious for her to be gone from this world as he was. "Well? I asked you a simple damn question, boy. Did you get me my licorice?"

"Yes, ma'am," he answered, holding the bag out from as far away as he could get. He couldn't believe how much he hated her. She'd haunted him, harassed him, belittled him and abused him for as long as he could remember.

"You think my arms grew while you was lollygagging today? Bring me the damn bag, boy, now!" Her chin wobbled when she yelled and her arm came up as if she would strike him. He hurried and dropped the bag into her hand, managing to get away before she could hit him.

"I wasn't lollygagging, Grandma," he said as he watched her tear open the bag and sink her too big, too white false teeth into the first piece. He never knew how she managed to eat the sticky candy with her fake teeth, but she always did, smacking her lips over each piece. "I was working."

"Oh, yeah. I forgot. You're so important now with that big job of yours. Maybe I should call down there and tell them what kind of person your really are. Maybe I should tell them what you do at night. What do you think?" She turned and glared at him with her mouth full of half masticated candy, waiting for him to say something, anything that would give her an excuse to hurt him. "You ain't fooling me like you fool all the rest of them. I know what you are inside. You're a dirty little boy who thinks he's so much better than all us regular people."

He shook his head slowly and started backing away from where she sat. He wanted so badly to argue with her, to tell her how completely wrong she was. But the words were caught behind the lump of fear in his throat.

"Where you going?" she hissed the question at him. "Yeah, you're too good to be in the same room with me, too high and mighty now. I bet you got some girl now thinking you're so wonderful." She cackled and black spittle flew from her mouth landing on the massive dress covered bosoms. "I wonder if she'd think you were so wonderful if I told her how you wet your bed, how you're just a pathetic and miserable excuse for a man who can't even hold his own bladder. Think she'd want you then?"

He backed away faster, his head shaking furiously, the words straining against lips that would never utter then. He could almost feel the sharp sewing scissors she'd kept in a drawer in her room, scissors that she would get out and make him hold while she stroked and petted his penis, pulling on it until it hurt. Then she would make him take those scissors and lay his penis across the open blades, her hand coming down over his smaller ones until the blades would pinch and slice his flesh, leaving small cuts that would bleed down his thighs and drip onto the floor.

His stocking feet hit the threshold of the room, his hand scrabbling back to find the old glass door knob, now filmed with age and dirt. He pushed the door open, running down the hall to scoop up his boots before turning into his own small room. Only then, his back against the closed door, did he feel safe. Only here, in the dark and quiet of his own room did he once more feel in control of anything in his life.